dragon archives 05 - forever a dragon (14 page)

It was dark when they finally reached Dragolea, a small town nestled in a valley in the foothills of the Northern Mountains. A few enquiries led Lleland to the Flying Duck, an inn that offered private rooms and a hearty meal, and he left Muriel in John’s care and went in search of a wainwright. He was at supper with his family when Lleland finally found him.

“Can’t do nothing ’til morning,” the wainwright said when Lleland explained the situation. “And from what you say, it’ll take a few days to fix.”

Lleland nodded. “I thought as much. I’m leaving in the morning, but you can find the lady at the Flying Duck. John, her coachman, will be able to direct you to the wreckage, and will assist you.”

“Very well.”

He walked back to the inn, and joined Muriel and John where they sat at one of the benches. Despite the fine summer weather a fire burned and crackled in the fireplace, the flames sending shadows dancing on the walls. Lleland watched Muriel as she ate. She had solemn brown eyes that reflected the burning flames, and her hair, golden like Lydia’s, was neatly pinned at the nape of her neck. She had already finished her meal, and sat with her hands folded in her lap.

“Were you able to find someone to lend assistance?” she asked.

“I did, Mistress. It’ll take a few days for repairs to be effected.”

“A few days?” She stared down at the table for a moment. “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” Lleland said. “I know you’re anxious to be on your way.”

“I understand,” she said, nodding, then paused. “And what of yourself, Master Seaton? Do you leave in the morning?”

“I do. I still have a long way to travel.”

“We can give you a ride when the carriage is repaired.”

“Thank you, Mistress. But I must keep going.”

She nodded and dropped her eyes to her lap. “Of course. And I thank you for your assistance.”

Lleland smiled. “It was nothing, Mistress. I’m happy I could be of service.”

“I’m glad it was you,” she said, blushing slightly as she stared at her hands. “You behaved like a perfect gentleman. Others might not have been so … considerate.”

“John would have protected you,” Lleland said, casting a glance at the coachman.

“Yes,” Muriel said. “Of course.”

When Lleland was done eating, he went for a walk, taking his daybook and writing kit along with him. An ancient wall ran around the town, and he climbed the rampart to the walkway on top. The town had been built on the top of a mound, and in every direction were uninhibited views of the surrounding countryside. Towers rose from the wall every five hundred yards, and Lleland took care to examine the materials and design of the formidable fortress, before committing them to the pages of his daybook. To the north the mountains loomed above the town. Chatting with a guard, Lleland discovered that the town was the last outpost before the towering range.

“How well do you know the mountains?” he asked.

The guard shrugged. “Well enough, I s’pose. When we were younger, my brother and I did some exploring.”

“Did you ever find a route across the mountains?”

“We never went that far. The terrain is demanding. If you plan to attempt a crossing, make sure you have rope and an ax.”

Lleland nodded. “Thank you, I’ll purchase some. Did you ever see dragons?”

“Often. But only ever in the distance.”

Lleland made his purchases the next morning, and then was on his way. The road climbed steeply, then dropped into yet another valley. In the distance he could see where the road forked, flanking the mountains in either direction, and with each summit gained, it grew closer.

He reached the fork in the late afternoon. The mountains stretched out before him, as far as he could see. He had bread and cold meat in his satchel, and he sat down to eat as he gazed at the towering peaks. In the summer sunshine they looked as if they had been rendered with an artist’s brush, with their medley of greens, blues and purples splashed with reds and yellows. A waterfall tumbled down the rock face of the closest peak, the spray creating a cloud of mist, while the more distant summits glistened with unmelted snow. Lleland felt a stirring in his heart – a mixture of trepidation and excitement. The mountains were calling to him, inviting him to come and learn their secrets. He had been aware of the stirring for a few days now, and the closer he drew to the mountains the more the excitement grew. He searched the sky, as he had done on previous days, for signs of dragons – longing for some sign of the beasts – but the blue sky was empty. Taking out his daybook, he sketched the mountains, but his efforts did not capture their sweeping grandeur and majesty, and he laid the book aside in frustration.

Rising to his feet, Lleland dusted off bits of grass and twigs and started down the west road. He had only gone a few miles when long shadows started to take the place of bright sunshine, although it would not be dark for a few hours yet. As he walked, Lleland searched for a place to sleep – he did not want to be stumbling in the dark. Large rocks lay scattered over the ground, as though flung by some giant hand in a fit of temper. Lleland picked his way over the ground until he found a large enough spot, clear of stones, where he could lie down in comfort. A big boulder stood close by, and he laid his possessions beside it. As the last light vanished the air quickly grew cool, and he spread his cloak over himself as he stretched out on the ground. The mountains gathered closer around him as night began to fall, and even in the dark he could sense their looming presence. The air was thick around him, and it coursed through his blood, making him aware of every sound, the slightest movement of air, the scent of the rock. He felt as though his blood was thrumming to a silent beat, responding to the crags before him.

When Lleland opened his eyes the next morning, the pale light of dawn had bathed the mountains in a soft pink. He lay for a moment and admired the majestic peaks, drinking in their beauty, before rising to his feet and continuing on his way.

There was little sign of habitation along the mountain road, and the next two nights found Lleland camping in the open again. On the third day he heard a rumbling behind him and turned to see a carriage traveling slowly along the undulating road. It came to a halt a few yards away, and John waved from atop the driver’s seat.

“Want a ride?” he called.

“How’s she going?” Lleland asked. A dappled gray replaced the horse that had been put down.

“As good as new,” John said, smacking his hand on the carriage roof.

The door opened and Muriel peeked out. “Master Seaton,” she said, “I’m so glad we caught up with you! As you can see, the wainwright you found for us did a very fine job.”

“So I see,” Lleland said.

“Can we offer you a ride? I’m sure John would enjoy the company, and it’s the least we can do after all your help.”

“I’m only going as far as the next village,” Lleland said. “From there I head into the mountains.”

“Hop on,” John said. “We’ll be there before nightfall.” Muriel withdrew into the carriage with a smile and closed the door as Lleland laid his bow and arrows along the footboard before swinging himself onto the bench.

“You’re familiar with this road?” Lleland asked.

“I’ve traveled it a few times. The highway is more direct, bypassing the mountains to the west, but I prefer the quieter roads.”

The village, which consisted of a church, a tavern and a collection of shabby cottages, was reached in the late afternoon. John pointed out the narrow path that led from the main street. “That’s the path you’re looking for,” he said. It was little more than a footpath, and it meandered through a field before disappearing between the trees. “It’s quite a climb,” John said. “Sure you don’t want to come with me and go around the mountains? Once you reach the trees, there’s no path. You could get lost.”

“I won’t get lost. And what better way to experience the mountains?”

John shook his head. “Well, what can I say? It’s a lonely place to die.”

Lleland smiled. “I have no plans to die,” he said.

He was on the path again at first light, before the others were even awake. The village soon disappeared from view as Lleland entered a forest of pine trees. The ground was carpeted in a thick layer of needles, which made walking difficult when the path became steep, and more than once Lleland had to grab the sticky trunks to prevent himself slipping down the smooth surface. The forest finally petered out sometime in the afternoon. By now there was no path to follow, and Lleland took a moment to get his bearings and decide on the best way to proceed. Long shadows lay over the ground, and the sun was beginning to slip towards the horizon. He continued north for another hour, scrambling along a shallow ravine as he kept an eye open for a level place to stop for the night. A narrow ledge of outcropping rock offered the only option, and Lleland carefully crawled onto it, pressing himself as far as he could against the rock face before pulling out his daybook. The light was quickly fading, and he only had time to make a few notes before it was too dim to see clearly. He returned the book to his satchel and closed his eyes.

It was the sun shining directly onto his face that woke him the next morning. A shimmer in the sky caught his eye, and he turned to see a dragon soaring high above the highest peaks. It was the first time he had seen a dragon on this journey, and he watched it as it circled lazily, its tail streaming out behind the huge body and wide-spread wings. The early morning light lit the scales, making them gleam like burnished gold. It would almost be beautiful, Lleland thought to himself, if it wasn’t so dangerous. He watched until it disappeared behind the peaks before pulling out his daybook. ‘Early morning,’ he wrote, ‘single dragon observed above mountains. Did not see me. No sign of lair.’ He waited a moment for the ink to dry, then closed the book and packed it away.

The route grew steeper, and many times Lleland had to inch along to avoid tumbling to his death below. His path zigzagged across the face of the mountain as he found crevices and cracks where he could climb his way to the summit. It was late afternoon when Lleland finally reached the top of the first peak. Before him, spreading as far as he could see, mountain after mountain stretched into the distance, connected by ridges and valleys. Lleland dropped his belongings and crouched down, staring into the distance. It was colder at this height, but even so, it seemed a good place to stop for the night and allow his body the rest it craved after two days of climbing.

The next eight days were a test of strength and determination as Lleland climbed the rocky heights. At the end of each day, he cleaned the gashes and scratches that covered his arms and legs with water from the mountain streams and the herbs he had collected along the way. He survived on berries, fish from the cold, glacial waters, and the small animals that scampered with ease over the rocks; and when darkness fell he checked the stars to ensure that he was still on the right course. Once he stripped off his clothes and dived into the frigid water of an alpine lake, yelling when the freezing water hit his skin. He climbed out a minute later, shivering but exultant. He reached the first glacier on the third day, the ice field covering the side of the mountain in a dazzling blanket. The air was cold, and when darkness fell, Lleland used the ax to dig a hole into the hard ice to serve as a meager shelter. Eagles made these rocky heights their home, and Lleland would often see one soaring through the sky in search of prey, then diving at dizzying speeds to snatch some small creature in its talons.

Every morning the golden dragon soared high above the peaks, sometimes on its own, sometimes with another. If it noticed Lleland, huddled on the ground below, it gave no indication.

Eventually the mountains began to fall away, and in the distance he saw sweeping valley, through which a turbulent river surged. It took another day before he began his descent into the valley, and he picked his way down the slope until he met a path which led to the river’s banks. It was the final obstacle, and Lleland approached it cautiously. He did not want to come so close to reaching his destination only to drown in a raging river. He walked along the riverbank until he found a spot where the surging waves were forced through a narrow gap of rock before crashing over a waterfall a few feet high. He waded through the shallow water to the rocky gap, holding his boots and other possessions above the current, and jumped. When he landed on the opposite side he smiled with satisfaction. From there it did not take long to reach the road that led to the village, and Storbrook.

The village was still a dozen miles down the road, and it wasn’t until the next day that Lleland finally saw the first houses on the village outskirts. There was no sign of life at the first house he passed, but outside the second house a man sat on a stool in the sunshine, sanding a large, shallow bowl to a gleaming smoothness. He glanced up and nodded a greeting before returning his attention to his project.

Lleland continued along the high street to the village inn. It opened directly onto the muddy road, and Lleland ducked his head as he stepped down into the dingy interior. A long bar ran the length of the room, and seated in the corner was the single patron of the establishment. A man was standing behind the bar, his elbows crossed as he leaned against the surface, but he straightened as Lleland entered.

“What be your pleasure?” he asked.

“Ale,” Lleland replied. He waited as the barman filled a wooden tankard with the brew. He had his choice of seats, and he picked one near the window. As he sat down, the man in the corner rose to his feet and made his way over to Lleland’s table. He was tall and lanky, with thinning hair and a graying, scraggly beard. He nodded at Lleland.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. Lleland waved at the chair across from him, and the man sat down. “You don’t look like a pilgrim,” he said.

“I’m not,” he said.

“I’m Matthew Hobbes,” the man said, stretching his thin lips into a smile. “Are you just passing through?”

“I’m looking for a man named Drake. You know of him?”

Matthew’s features hardened. “I know him.”